


sweet thing.

by zigostia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - High School, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:00:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26673292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zigostia/pseuds/zigostia
Summary: Over the course of a week, John tries (and fails—multiple times) to ask Sherlock to the dance.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 15
Kudos: 116





	sweet thing.

**i.**

Good god, Chemistry was boring. And simultaneously much too complicated for John's muddled, sleep-deprived brain to understand.

He sighed, and rubbed his temples with two fingers. Maybe he could just take a nap. It wasn't like he _needed_ to learn about aldehydes and ketones, really. He was more interested in, say, kinesiology. Or football. There were a lot of things he was more interested in than Chemistry, actually, and one of those things was sitting right in front of him, two rows ahead and one seat to the left, at this very moment—so it was rather understandable that whatever Ms. Grant was talking about went in one ear and immediately out the other.

As if he could _feel_ John's eyes on him—he swear it was true, sometimes; had eyes on the back of his dark curly head—Sherlock turned around enough to cast a single raised eyebrow at him.

John felt heat scatter around his cheeks and did his best to hide it, ducking his head. When he raised it again, Sherlock had turned back around to face the whiteboard.

John sighed, and did his best to nurse that sweet, aching warmth in his chest whilst simultaneously tamping it down.

His phone vibrated in his pocket.

_Pay attention. SH_

John smiled.

_I am. JW_

_You aren't. You were daydreaming again, weren't you? SH_

John's fingers hesitated on the keyboard, hovered; typed out an excessively needlessly cheesy line before he cringed and backspaced furiously.

_Chem is boring. JW_

_It wouldn't be if you actually paid any attention to what she was teaching. SH_

_You're not paying attention either, though. JW_

_Yes, I am. SH_

Sherlock then raised his hand, and, when he was called on, explained that Ms. Grant had missed a carbon atom in one of her drawings.

_See? SH_

_Showoff. JW_

_I am. That's what we do. SH_

John scoffed quietly and rolled his eyes. He stared down at the text on the screen, chewing on his lip, fingers hovering with trepidation, trembling, before he gritted his teeth and typed it out, pressing send immediately before he could lose his cool.

_Are you going to the dance on Friday? JW_

Looking up, the back of Sherlock's head didn't seem to register any change in emotion as he read the text. John's eyes flickered down to the screen: _Message read._ Back up: Sherlock's fingers (long, thin, elegant, perfect for playing the violin in the school orchestra that was otherwise rather shit) moving under the desk. Back down: _SH <3 was typing... _

_Typing..._

_Typing..._

By the time the text sent, John had nearly chewed his whole lip off.

_Dances are needlessly crowded groups of teens trying too hard to look cool while so-called "dancing" to too-loud, synthesized music, which according to them is standing around and swaying ever-so-slightly whilst trying not to spill a can of overpriced pop. SH_

John sighed.

_No need to be so dramatic. I got the message. JW_

John looked back up. Sherlock's fingers wrapped around his phone and tucked it back into his pocket, putting it away.

John sighed again. He wasn't ever going to get a chance.

**ii.**

"Hey, wait up!"

John ran to catch up to Sherlock. He nearly collided into him, veering at the last second so that he gave him a friendly punch on the shoulder before slowing to match Sherlock's stride.

Sherlock cocked his head. "Hello, John."

"Hey, Sherlock," John said, a little out of breath from his mad dash out the library when he looked up and saw Sherlock's familiar knapsack and long coat billowing out the door, violin case gripped tightly in one hand. "How was rehearsal?"

"Fine," Sherlock said. "Mike still can't count to four, apparently."

John snorted. "I doubt that, considering he go the highest mark in last week's math test."

"In that case, I wonder why he still manages to come in at the wrong measure every single bloody time."

John laughed. Sherlock smiled, eyes darting over to John—then frowned. "What about you? You don't have practise today. I thought you'd be home by now."

"Oh, me? Nah," John breezed. "I hung back to do some homework." (Actually, he sat in the library and alternated between checking his phone, listening to music, and casting anxious gazes at the clock and then out the window, all while avoiding the librarian's knowing smile. Seriously, _everyone_ in the school knew. Hell, the janitor tsk-ed sympathetically when he saw John in the hallways. There was no way Sherlock didn't know. And yet...)

"I see," Sherlock said. "What homework?"

"Uhhh," John said. "Chemistry," he said, the first thing that came to his mind.

Sherlock cocked his head. "I thought you said you couldn't understand this unit."

"I don't," John said without thinking, and then, "I mean, I guess I tried to do the homework more than I actually did it. I kind of just stared at it, I guess."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "For forty-five minutes?"

"Yup," John said cheerfully, and bit down on his tongue, hard, before he could dig himself any deeper of a hole.

"Hmm," Sherlock said.

Frantic, John blurted, "Did you know that Molly Hooper wanted to ask you to the dance on Friday?"

Sherlock blinked. "Who?"

John looked at Sherlock balefully. "Molly Hooper? She was your lab partner?" (Only because they weren't allowed to choose their own partners, he thought, with a little flickering fire of resentment. He nearly burnt himself on the Bunsen burner because he was too busy watching Molly twirl her hair and giggle at Sherlock.)

"Oh," Sherlock said. "Her."

"Yes," John said. "Her."

Sherlock's eyebrows came together. "I'm gay."

"Yes," John said. "I know. _She_ doesn't."

Sherlock made a little noise of acknowledgement. John waited for him to speak, and when he didn't after a moment, prodded tentatively, "So are you going to say yes?"

Sherlock stopped walking completely. John nearly tripped.

Turning his face to look at John entirely, Sherlock gave John a look that indicated he was being, according to his own words, an utter dimwit.

"Are you serious?" Sherlock asked.

"What?" John said. "What do you mean? Are you really going to say yes? To Molly?" He felt something hot trail down his spine. "Sherlock, you—"

Silently, Sherlock raised a hand and tapped John with the pad of his index finger right on his lips. John immediately went silent, cross-eyed.

"John," Sherlock said. "I'm _gay."_

John watched as Sherlock withdrew his finger. He licked his lips; stammered. "Oh."

"Yeah," Sherlock said, eyes dancing with amusement. _"Oh."_

"Okay," John said. "That's good."

"It is," Sherlock agreed.

Sherlock's eyes were some curious blend of colours, all greens and blues and greys.

Words clustered in John's mouth, swarming at his lips. He kept his mouth doggedly shut, so close to the precipice but backing out at the last second, yet again.

A few moments of silence later, something unreadable settled in Sherlock's eyes. He let out a small sigh.

"Glad we sorted that out," Sherlock said, and was walking down the street once again.

John stared dumbly for a second before snapping out of it, hurrying to catch back up.

He had a few days left, he reassured himself.

Just a few days left.

**iii.**

"Morning, Sherlock!" John said as he passed by Sherlock's locker on the way to English. (He could've gone the other way and taken less time, but he always got to school early enough to take the long way around, the one that passed by Sherlock's locker. Of course, it was just because he had extra time to kill.)

"Good morning, John," Sherlock said.

"Wanna go to the dance with me?" John asked.

...

Of course, he didn't actually say that.

"Wanna go to—" he got out, and then his nerves kicked him in the stomach like an agitated mule and he abruptly swerved so hard he nearly choked. "The cafe with me after school to study?" he finished in a strangled voice.

Sherlock gave John a strange look. "Sure," he said.

"Awesome," John said, and that was it.

**iv.**

"So have you asked Sherlock out yet?"

John jerked so hard he nearly fell out of seat, flinging his arms in the air for balance, teetering on the edge before finally regaining his footing.

He glared at a grinning Irene Adler. "Say that a little louder, why don't you?"

"Oh, _gladly,"_ Irene said, raising her voice. "I HEREBY DECLARE THAT JOHN WATSON HAS A HUGE GAY CRU—"

John slapped a hand over Irene's mouth, glaring as hard as he could. Irene widened her eyes at him in defeat, and John cautiously dropped his hand, wiping it on his jeans and grimacing at the feeling of lipstick on his palms.

"You asked," Irene said innocently. She swung her backpack onto the ground before dropping into the chair next to him. "But anyway, have you?"

Feeling his glare soften into a pitiful stare, John studied the aimless doodles he was making on his Chemistry homework (that, despite what he told Sherlock the day before, he absolutely did not even touch). "No."

 _"John,"_ Irene said, in that disappointed-mother voice of hers.

"Irene," John said, in that whining-child voice of his. "At this point, I don't even know if I should ask him."

"Why the hell not?"

"He would've said something already."

"Not if he didn't know."

"He does, though."

"No, he doesn't."

"Everyone in the bloody school knows!"

"Knows what?" Sherlock said, suddenly appearing right in front of them.

John let out a yelp and nearly jolted out of his chair for the second time in five minutes.

"Hi there, Sherlock," Irene cooed. "Nice seeing you."

"You were the one who told me to come here," Sherlock said, a familiar irritated scowl on his features. "I'm supposed to be printing out my Calculus assignment at the library right now."

"You should go do that," John said, pieces clicking together in his head. "Right now. That would definitely be a good idea."

"I've got twenty minutes," Sherlock said, directing his piercing eyes straight at John. "What does everyone in the bloody school know?"

"Nothing," John said immediately.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, ramping the intensity up to a solid twelve.

John felt fire ants crawling up and down his neck. "That, uh, the meatballs in the cafeteria are made of horse meat."

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up to the ceiling. "No, they aren't. They're made of ground-up chicken carcasses."

John gagged. "Oh my god, I did _not_ need to hear that."

"They don't tell you that on the menu," Sherlock said offhandedly. "But everyone in the school absolutely does _not_ know that, so what _do_ they know, John?"

Next to them, Irene stifled a laugh. John's eyes were getting tired of glaring so much today.

He tried his best to smile at Sherlock, though it was definitely more of a grimace than anything else. "Don't worry about it," he soothed. "It's nothing, really."

Sherlock made a frustrated, growling noise in his throat that did bad things to John's imagination.

"Hey, Sherlock," Irene said. "Wanna go to the dance with me?"

John's mouth dropped open as he gaped at Irene. Sherlock directed towards her a similar, more put-together version of the look. "Why is everyone asking me that?"

"You're a hot commodity, what can I say," Irene said breezily. "Who _has_ asked you?"

"Molly, Victor, Ben, Sally, Tom," Sherlock listed off rapidly. "And now you."

"Wait— _what?"_ John felt like the carpet had just been pulled out from below his feet. _"Six people_ asked you to the dance?"

Sherlock nodded, as if this was totally normal and not at all panic-inducing.

A million phrases traffic-jammed in John's throat, and only one popped out. "But you're gay!"

"Victor, Ben, and Tom are male," Irene pointed out.

"What can I say?" Sherlock shrugged. "I'm a 'hot commodity'."

"Damn _right."_ Irene whistled. Sherlock snorted.

John's mind was still stuck on the fact that _six fucking people_ had already asked Sherlock to the dance. "But you're—but you're—"

"I'm what?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Antisocial? Weird? Intimidating?"

"No!" John said, and then fought to keep his voice level. "No, not at all, that's not what I meant. I just meant—they asked you?" _(Before me?)_ "They were serious?" _(Am I too late?)_ "Did you—you didn't say yes, right, Sherlock? If you said yes—" _(I don't know what I would do.)_

"Why not?" Sherlock said, expression cooling. "Is it so surprising? I'm not popular enough to get asked to dances? They must've been joking, then. Because no one would actually want to go to the dance with me, right? If it makes you feel any better, John, I said no to all of them. I wouldn't want to go to a stupid dance, anyway. Not with those six people. Not with anyone—except—"

Abruptly, his mouth snapped shut.

"Sherlock—" John started, desperately.

"I'm going to the library," Sherlock said, monotone, and left.

John stared at Sherlock's back until it disappeared around the corner. "Fuck," he said heavily.

**v.**

Friday meant practise days, which meant that 1. John had to walk home sweaty, exhausted, and covered in grass stains, and 2. John had to walk home without Sherlock.

Not that the second point mattered, John thought bitterly. Yesterday, John had waited by Sherlock's locker for ages until Mike had come up and informed him that Sherlock had gone home already.

Jesus, he thought, and thumped his head against the wall, hard enough to sting. He had gone and made a goddamn mess of things, hadn't he.

"Hurry it up, Watson!" The coach's voice bellowed into the change room. "It's been twenty minutes! Stop primping and get the hell on with it!"

John groaned as he heard the rest of the team laugh. "Coming, coach!" he yelled back, and tugged on his uniform.

For the next hour, he ran, threw, and tackled all thoughts of Sherlock out of his mind. By the end of it, when they trudged back into the school, disgusting and breathless, John had nearly forgotten all about it.

That is, until he emerged from the school, freshly-showered, only to spot a familiar coat-clad figure standing at the entrance, leaning against the brick wall.

"Sherlock," John said, too startled to say anything else.

Sherlock kicked off the wall and started to walk. John found his feet moving without permission, following instinctively. "Hello, John."

"What are you doing here?" John scrambled for the proper words in his head. "Not that I'm not happy to see you, of course, but you usually go home earlier. And yesterday, uh—I mean, it's not like you're _obligated_ to walk with me every day, but—"

Sherlock rolled his eyes so hard John could see it from the side of his head. "John, shut up."

John shut up.

"I want to apologize," Sherlock said next.

John's mouth opened; closed again.

"Irene spoke to me after school," Sherlock continued. "She explained to me that I had apparently misunderstood you. I thought you were mocking me, but according to her, you were simply surprised." He paused. "And because of something else."

John's throat unlocked with an audible _click._ "What did she tell you?" Dread, thick and black, dawned in his stomach.

"Nothing more," Sherlock said. "She told me to ask you directly."

Relief flooded him. "Thank god," he breathed.

"Why?" Sherlock said. "What is so utterly important that both of you are acting so secretive about it?"

Oh, fuck, John thought. "Well. Um. You see, I."

"Spit it out, John."

"The, uh," John stammered. "The dance. On Friday."

"Yes, I _know_ there's a dance on Friday, you've been telling me that all bloody week," Sherlock said impatiently.

"Yeah, but," John said uselessly. "But."

"But what?"

"But, I, uh."

Sherlock threw his arms up in the air. "Just ask me already, John!"

"But—wait." John screeched to a stop and looked, wide-eyed, at Sherlock, who suddenly looked very, very guilty. "Hold on a second. You _knew?"_

"Knew what," Sherlock said, not meeting John's gaze.

"Oh, you bastard," John whispered. "Since when?"

"Monday," Sherlock mumbled.

"Oh, you _fucker,"_ John said. "And you just let me torture myself over it? For a whole goddamn _week?"_

"I wasn't sure," Sherlock protested. "And I didn't want to pressure you."

"Pressure me my _ass,"_ John said. "Jesus fucking Christ. I cannot believe—a whole shitting _week!"_

"Language," Sherlock scolded, but his eyes were sparkling and his lips tugged into a bright, happy smile.

"Fuck you," John said crisply, and then grabbed Sherlock by the lapels of his coat. "I'm going to kiss you now," he declared.

"I have no protests against that," Sherlock murmured.

"And tomorrow, you're going to come to the dance with me."

"I don't like dances."

"You'll like this one," John said, leaning in close enough that his lips began to tingle, slipping out just a few more words before he let their mouths meet completely. "Trust me."

**+**

Irene whooped when she saw the two of them holding hands.

"About _time,"_ she yelled out across the dance floor, where she was holding some poor Junior captive in her arms, twirling him around the gym like a swing dancer.

John beamed and waved. Sherlock tightened his grip on John's hand until John felt his bones creak.

"Calm down," John murmured, stroking his thumb along the back of Sherlock's hand. "You're going to be fine."

"This music is horrid," Sherlock muttered.

"It... really is," John had to agree.

"Do we have to do this?"

"It's the high school experience," John argued.

Sherlock sniffed. "What, standing awkwardly and swaying?"

"At least we don't have the overpriced pop," John said.

"Nonetheless. That sounds like a terrible experience."

"It really does," John agreed. Again.

"Can we just leave and walk through the forest instead? The salamanders come out at this hour."

"Why would you..."

"I'm doing an investigation on their secretion."

"Of course you are," John muttered.

"So can we?"

"No," John said. "Well, okay, maybe later. But one dance."

Sherlock sighed like John had asked for him to carry Mount Everest on his shoulders. "Fine," he said graciously.

They made their way to the centre of the dancefloor. Sherlock put his hands on John's waist. John put his hands on Sherlock's shoulders.

"This is awful," Sherlock declared.

John held it together for two seconds before bursting into a fit of laughter. "It really is," he said, once he'd regained his breath.

"The whole gym smells like sweat and anxiety."

"That's because everyone's trying to get enough nerve to ask their crush to dance."

"Oh, really?" Sherlock said, and, in a swift move that was so smooth John would swear he'd practised it before, turned a half-circle and pulled John in close, until they were breathing the same air, heartbeats syncing. "I suppose we're the lucky ones, then."

"Yes," John said, smiling, some sweet thing pulsing in his chest. "We are."

**Author's Note:**

> I realized it's been way too long since I wrote some johnlock, and that was unacceptable, so here we are. I hope everyone is doing okay with the pandemic and life and such—stay safe and hang in there!
> 
> The title is from the song Sweet Thing by Van Morrison. As always, thank you endlessly for reading, and let me know if you enjoyed this little story <3


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